


down to the fires of insufferable sins

by Nokomis



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Brilliant teenage logic, Canon Divergence, Crossover, F/M, Fix-It, for AHS:A, sometimes you watch two shows in the same week and can't help yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-22 13:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16598744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: The Spellman family play host to a teenaged Antichrist.





	1. if the water won't have you

**Author's Note:**

> Set after S1 of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. This goes AU for AHS: Apocalypse after Michael is taken in by Ms Mead and instead of ending up at the Hawthorne School, he catches the attention of the Church of Night.
> 
> Title from ‘Down to the River” by Brown Bird. Thanks to the lovely Lielabell for glancing over this for me!

“Father Blackwood visited this afternoon,” Aunt Zelda announced once they’d all gathered for a family meeting. “A very high honor has been bestowed upon us.”

“They’re not going to try to eat one of us again, are they?” Sabrina said, picking up one of Aunt Hilda’s cookies and shoving it into her mouth. She only had an hour before she was supposed to be at the Academy. She wanted to call Harvey, not hear about another dubious honor.

“Not that we discussed,” Aunt Zelda said. She looked downright happy. “The Dark Lord’s only begotten son is going to stay with us.”

“I’m sorry, do you mean the Antichrist? We’re going to be hosting the Antichrist?” Ambrose said, perking up. “Is he hot?”

“Father Blackwood didn’t specifically mention whether or not he was hot,” Aunt Zelda said. “But hopefully he’s terrible to look upon, just like his father.” She sighed happily.

“Why?” Sabrina asked, looking around. “I mean, we haven’t exactly been the Dark Lord’s faves. Aunt Hilda’s even managed to get excommunicated from the Church of Night! Why would the Dark Lord send his son here?”

“Well,” Zelda said. “Father Blackwood didn’t specify.”

“What, exactly, did the Father say?” Ambrose wondered. “It sounds like he just popped in and told you to get a room ready.”

Aunt Zelda’s silence said it all.

“Well,” Aunt Hilda said finally, “I suppose we’d best get a room ready.”

*

Aunt Zelda had decided that she should skip her classes at the Academy for the night in favor of greeting their illustrious houseguest. So Sabrina was helping Ambrose with the dishes after dinner when Salem yeowled and darted out of the kitchen, tail straight in the air.

“Well,” Ambrose said, “I guess we should go see what the Son of the Beast looks like. Hopefully he isn’t a total dick.”

“Look at who his dad is, of course he will be,” Sabrina said. 

Ambrose grinned and made a grand gesture towards the door. Sabrina smiled and led the way to the foyer, where Zelda was smoothing out her dress and reaching for the door. Hilda stood on the landing, patting her hair and muttering, “Should we have put out more inverted crosses?”

“The house looks perfectly grim,” Sabrina reassured her as Zelda opened the door.

A young man stood there in a dark coat, the porch light reflecting off his golden curls. Ambrose clutched at her shoulder. “Oh no,” he muttered, obviously trying to whisper but, being Ambrose, failing spectacularly. “Oh no, cousin, this is terrible.”

It was super terrible. Sabrina had spent the past few hours readying herself to try to be polite no matter what type of beast showed up, but she hadn’t prepared herself for the most angelic-looking hottie she’d ever laid eyes on. 

“Dibs,” Ambrose whispered.

She was pretty sure that she saw the Antichrist’s lips quirk, as though he was suppressing a smile.

“You can’t call dibs, I might be his type,” Sabrina whispered back. She was very loyal to Harvey, of course, but he didn’t want to see her right now, and, well… Sabrina was only half-mortal. She couldn’t be expected to resist.

Zelda turned back and glared at them, before smiling graciously at the Antichrist and launching into the speech she’d spend the past few hours rehearsing in the viewing room.

The Antichrist stopped her midway through. “My name is Michael Langdon,” he said. “Thank you for opening your home to me.”

“Oh, you’re quite welcome, dearie,” Hilda said, bustling down and looking him up and down. “You look like you could use some cookies.”

That is how Sabrina found herself sitting across from the Antichrist, eating her Aunt Hilda’s devil’s food cookies. She thought that if she kept her mouth full she couldn’t make a fool of herself. Zelda and Hilda had hurried downstairs, presumably to call Father Blackwood.

The Antichrist -- Michael, she reminded herself firmly -- was eating the cookies with a complete lack of grace. It did nothing to diminish his ethereal beauty, but it did make it clear that he was roughly her own age. She’d seen too many boys in the cafeteria at both of her schools eating with the same single-minded devotion. 

He looked so normal that for a brief moment she thought that he was fortunate he hadn’t been sent to the Academy of Unseen Arts, because the Weird Sisters would eat him alive. Then the angle changed slightly, and his expression went from guileless to calculating, and she re-evaluated. The Weird Sisters wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

“So, Michael -- it’s okay if I call you Michael, right?” Ambrose said, draping himself over his favorite chair artfully. He’d spent enough time on house arrest that he knew his best angle in every chair on the premises, just for this exact scenario. Michael nodded, but seemed far more focused on his cookies than on Ambrose. “What brought you to our home?”

“I want to speak to my father, and the Church of Night seems to have a close relationship with him,” Michael said, sounding quite annoyed with the fact. “Father Blackwood suggested that the Spellman family was especially of interest to my father, and that being here will get his attention more quickly than anywhere else.”

Sabrina blinked, “Do you mean that you don’t know how to contact your own father?”

“I’ve tried,” Michael said, scowling at her. “Obviously. He just has chosen not to speak to me directly.”

Sabrina remembered the feeling that had overcome her, right after signing her name into the Book of the Beast, as though the Dark Lord was wrapped around her, embracing her like a lover, and thought maybe Michael was better off having a deadbeat dad. “What about your mom? She’s obviously one of his chosen.”

“She died giving birth to me,” Michael said shortly. “Besides, she doesn’t know anything about my father. The circumstances of my birth were somewhat unconventional.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Ambrose said. Michael offered him a smile that made Sabrina think that Ambrose was going to launch himself over the table at the poor boy. Thankfully, Ambrose retained at least a semblance of self-respect and refrained. 

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Sabrina offered. “My parents died when I was a baby, too. It sucks.”

Michael looked at her directly for the first time. Sabrina thought she’d feel overwhelmed with darkness, but instead she just felt a little sad for him. “Yeah. She won’t even look me in the eye, because she thinks I’m a monster.”

Ambrose rose an eyebrow, and Michael flushed and said, “She’s a ghost. All my family are ghosts, now.”

“Don’t let Zelda hear that, she might try to adopt you,” Ambrose said. “She’s got a soft spot for lost lambs capable of unspeakable power, our aunt does.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Michael said. He poked at the few crumbs left on his plate, then he said, “Have either of you ever spoken to my father?”

Sabrina bit her lip, and said, “Not in the flesh. He possessed my principal to threaten me once, and that was awful. Oh, and he took me to court, but thankfully he stayed downstairs.”

“Sabrina’s been a bit of a troublemaker, since she fled her Dark Baptism and we found out her mortal mother secretly had her baptised by _Catholics_ ,” Ambrose explained. Sabrina glared at him, but he shrugged unrepentantly. “I’m sure Father Blackwood already mentioned it.”

“I was curious as to why you were the focus of my father’s attention,” Michael said, gaze steady. Sabrina could feel what he left unsaid lingering in the air, _while he ignored me._

“I’d really rather not be,” Sabrina said. 

Michael’s expression made her uncomfortable in ways she couldn’t quite pin down, but she reached for another cookie, unwilling to leave. Being near Michael made the deep wellspring of magic within her _sing,_ and she understood Zelda’s devoutness if she felt like this.

*

Sabrina woke at the witching hour to Salem nudging her cheek with his wet nose. “Ugh, quit it,” she muttered, trying to roll over and go back to sleep, but Salem was insistent.

“What?” she asked, and watched as he darted across the room to the window, looking at her pointedly.

She reluctantly emerged from her blankets to look out the window, just in time to see Michael disappear into the woods, his pale hair the only visible part in the moonlight.

Salem gave her a look that clearly meant she should be following Michael, and she sighed and found her favorite red coat, pulling it over her nightgown, and crammed her feet into shoes as she hurried out her bedroom door and towards the stairs.

Michael was out of sight by the time she reached the edge of the forest, but she knew where he had to be headed.

The woods were dark and welcoming, as familiar as her own house, and she didn’t worry about losing her way. She heard Michael before she saw him, his voice raised and angry and passionate in a way she wouldn’t have expected. 

Nothing about him was what she would have expected, had she given much prior thought to the Son of the Beast. He was uncertain and emotional and incredibly _human_ , no matter what unearthly powers he might possess.

She crept forward more carefully, now that she was within earshot, but the woods were hers, and she made no noise as she approached. Michael was in the center of the clearing where she’d been born sixteen years before, standing in the center of a pentagram that had been hastily sketched out in the dirt and fallen leaves. He was on his knees, head raised to the night sky, and he appeared to be having a one-sided argument with the Dark Lord.

He was fully clothed, but Sabrina felt like she’d walked in on him in a deeply intimate moment nonetheless. His words washed over her, a litany of pain and frustration and anger directed at his father.

His father, who had never spoken directly to him. She watched, feeling strangely embarrassed to notice Michael’s beautiful jawline as he poured his heart out to the Dark Lord. He kept pausing, clearly hoping for a response, but nothing came.

Instead, the woods felt calm and empty, and nothing at all like the nights where she’d felt the presence of the Beast.

She stepped forward without letting herself think too much about it, moving into the clearing and waiting for Michael to notice her. When he finally did, she was surprised to see that that there were tear tracks on his cheeks; he was genuinely distraught that his father hadn’t appeared.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was harsh.

“My familiar thought you shouldn’t be alone,” Sabrina answered, stepping closer. She stopped just outside the circle he’d drawn around himself, and sat on the ground, since he was still kneeling. Her knees tucked to the side, she continued, “He’s usually right about things. Do you have a familiar?”

“I’m not a warlock,” Michael said. He seemed almost sad about it. “I have no need of a familiar.”

Sabrina shrugged. “Need and want are two different things. Maybe a familiar would make you feel more connected to your father.”

Michael didn’t need to say anything, his skeptical expression let her know exactly how he felt about it. “You’re not bothered by my wanting to be closer to my father?”

Sabrina shook her head. “I think that’s all any of us want, really.” 

“So why did you have doubts?” Michael’s voice, like so much about him, was uncertain.

“I was raised devoutly,” Sabrina said, trying to gather her thoughts into something that would be useful for Michael’s obvious predicament. “The Church of Night was the only one I ever prayed to, and I didn’t question it at all, until my Dark Baptism approached.”

“Why then?” 

“Because everyone was pushing me so hard to ignore the doubts,” Sabrina said honestly. “Things suddenly felt clearer, when it no longer felt like my choice but something I had to do. It turned out it was because my father had written my name in the Book of the Beast when I was an infant, but all I knew at the time was that it didn’t feel right. A bunch of things that had struck me as strange all stood out in stark relief.”

Michael was watching her closely, and Sabrina should probably guard her words more carefully, but her intuition told her that she should speak from the heart. Her intuition rarely failed her. 

“Did you know that the Church of Night requires young witches to remain pure until their Dark Baptism?” Sabrina asked. “And there are ceremonies that pick a woman at random to be cannibalized by the congregation. Like, that was super gross! There are some deeply hypocritical and messed up things that happen in the Church of Night in the Dark Lord’s name, and no one acts like there’s anything wrong with it. And no one can prove to me that it’s actually what the Dark Lord demands in exchange for our power, or if it’s just bullshit.”

Michael looked as if he wanted to speak, but held back his words. She wondered what he’d seen done in his father’s name, or even just to honor Michael himself as the bringer of the end of days, all without any solid proof that it was effective.

She wondered if he had doubts, too. Kneeling in his pentagram, voice still hoarse from trying to get his father’s unholy attention, she thought that he must.

“And I just don’t want to blindly follow bullshit,” she concluded. 

“That sounds like something my dad would say,” Michael said. He didn’t mean the Dark Lord, though that fit. Sabrina wondered about the family that had driven him away, the family that had convinced him that he was a monster.

What the hell, she was in the forest at midnight with the Antichrist, might as well take some conversational risks. “What was he like?” 

“My sister said he was a monster,” Michael said. “But I didn’t care. I wanted to be just like him, but he would never even look at me. He hated me. My mother tried to kill me, and my dad wouldn’t look at me, and my grandmother killed herself rather than stay with me.”

“Then screw them,” Sabrina said. “You’re not who your family said you were, Michael. You’re your own person, and you get to decide what that means. Not your family, not your father, no one. They don’t own you, and you don’t owe them.”

Michael looked thoughtfully off into the distance, then down at the pentagram he was kneeling in. “He’s not coming tonight, is he?”

“The Dark Lord isn’t in these woods tonight,” Sabrina agreed. “I’ve never seen him directly, but there’s a weight to the air when his presence is here. If you ask me, he’s being a total dick to you.”

Michael let out a surprised laugh. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

Sabrina shrugged. “It’s true, though. Any dark entity would be proud to claim you as a son! And the Dark Lord is just leaving you high and dry. Total dick move.”

Michael smiled at her, and it was so blindingly beautiful that Sabrina temporarily forgot that Harvey Kinkle existed. “You know what?” she said. “You want to know how I got the attention of the Dark Lord?”

“Not at all,” Michael said, deadpan.

“I ran out of my Dark Baptism,” Sabrina said. “I didn’t want to abandon my mortal life. I didn’t know that my soul had been pawned off on him when I was a few days old. So when I turned my back on him, that totally pissed him off. Now he keeps breathing down my neck, wanting me to fully pledge myself to the darkness, in words and deeds alike. So if you started rebelling against him, he would totally come around for some fatherly lectures.”

Michael blinked. “That’s… That might work, actually.”

“Honestly, if anyone would understand some good old fashioned teen rebellion, it’s Lucifer,” Sabrina pointed out. “But having his misbegotten son embrace mortal life?”

“Pleading for his attention hasn’t worked, so maybe pissing him off will,” Michael said. 

Sabrina beamed at him. She climbed to her feet, and held out a hand to help Michael up, reaching across the line of his circle. She could feel a faint buzz of magic as she did, something dark and hate-filled and powerful, but as Michael’s hand closed around her own, it dropped away.

Michael stepped out of his circle, brushing his foot in the dirt to break the line, but doesn’t release her hand. Sabrina lead him out of the clearing and back towards the Spellman house. Halfway there, Michael stopped, turning towards her. “Thank you for not seeing me as a monster.”

“No problem,” Sabrina said as Michael leaned in, pressing his mouth against hers.

 _I’m kissing the Antichrist_ , Sabrina thought wildly. The kiss was utterly Michael -- both aggressive and uncertain, his mouth devouring hers while his hands hovered awkwardly in the air near her hips. Sabrina realized she was backing up when she felt the rough bark of a tree against her back, and Michael pressed his hands against the tree on either side of her. She took the opportunity to take control of the kiss, tugging at Michael’s bottom lip and guiding him into something a little less aggressive.

If she didn’t know better, she would think he was new at this. 

She tangled her hands into his hair, which was just as soft and silky as it looked, and lost herself into the kiss. Eventually, they broke apart. Michael leaning against her, looking at her with heavy eyes and swollen lips.

She knew what Prudence would do right now. Prudence would wrap her leg around Michael and pull him even closer, but Sabrina knew that wasn’t the right path. There was something delicate and new between them, something forged from confessions and understandings, and she wanted to nurture it, not force it into something it wasn’t. 

So Sabrina took a deep breath, smiled up at Michael, and said, “The Aunties will probably notice I’m gone soon.”

They wouldn’t, and Zelda at least would be delighted if her niece were deflowered by the Son of the Beast, but Michael nodded and pulled away with zero hesitations. 

“I could use some sleep. I haven’t slept well lately.” Michael walked beside her down the path towards the Spellman house, and though he didn’t try to take her hand, the back of his kept brushing hers in a way that sent shivers through her entire body.

They were back at the house too quickly.

Standing in the foyer, Sabrina looked up at Michael, and she almost regretted her choice. His hair was sticking up in a way that should look ridiculous but instead just made him look softer and vulnerable, nothing at all like a destroyer of worlds. “What are you going to do?”

“I think I’m going to enroll in the Academy of Unseen Arts,” he said. “Get to know my father better. Get to know the congregants.”

“Don’t let them know who you are,” Sabrina said. She felt like she had to warn him; there was something malleable about Michael. “Watch, learn, and form your own opinions. They’ll try to turn you into a weapon if they know.”

“Father Blackwood already knows,” Michael said thoughtfully, “but he seems like he could be encouraged into silence.”

“Having an in with the son of Satan is like, one of his top five power fantasies,” Sabrina agreed. “I don’t know what sort of power you have, but the Academy might teach you ways to use it.”

Michael nodded. “And you’ll be there. You said you would show me the joys of the mortal life, remember?”

His voice was soft and sincere, though Sabrina could see calculation in the tilt of his head and the way he surveyed her. She knew that he might be interested in her simply because the Dark Lord was, but she couldn’t ignore the way that Michael clearly wanted, underneath it all, to be good. Sabrina knew the allure of the dark, and since she struggled with it too, she thought that maybe, just maybe she could help show Michael the appeal of the light.

Or, at the very least, she might stave off the apocalypse for a little longer. She smiled back, and said, “You’re going to love the Academy and Greendale both.”

She was going to damn well make sure of it.


	2. if the devil's too blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who read the first part, and encouraged me to write more! I hope this is a more satisfactory ending; I had a lot of fun writing out the development of Sabrina and Michael’s relationship. Thank you for joining me on this wild crossover, it has been so fun! ❤ ❤ ❤
> 
> Thank you so so much to Lielabell for beta’ing and making this story so much better than it was. ❤ ❤ ❤

The house loomed behind its fence, dark and foreboding. Vines crept up the brick walls, the yard was overgrown and unkempt, and there was a disturbing air of hasty abandonment about the place. A wind chime made of bones clanked in the tree, and Sabrina smiled. She’d worried that she wouldn’t feel comfortable in the house Michael had been born in, but it reminded her of the Spellman Mortuary. No wonder Michael had stayed.

She took a deep breath, set her shoulders and marched up the front path, Salem trotting beside her. Death magic hung heavily in the air which she easily ignored as she approached the front door. The house felt like some of the darker wings of the Academy -- the Dark Lord’s influence over it was palpable.

She tried the front door. Locked, of course. Nothing was ever simple. She tried a short unlocking incantation, feeling tendrils of magic reaching into the door. It resisted, but she pushed more magic into the spell and the door unlocked with a soft click.

She quickly stepped inside, shutting the door behind her so that no passer-bys would realize someone had broken in. 

The foyer was open and bright, at least in comparison to her own home, and everything was immaculately clean. There was no one in sight, but Sabrina had no doubt that someone would be along soon to attempt to scare the bejeezus out of her. She’d done her research before going on this road trip.

She was actually missing her demonology class to be here. It probably wasn’t wise, but she was deeply worried about Michael, and the way he was embracing the Church of Night. It was past time that she attempted to dig into the root of the problem.

Michael was entirely focused on the Dark Lord, but Sabrina knew more than anyone that your family helped make you who you are. She was going to find the people who made Michael think of himself as a monster, and she was going to see to it that they did something to help him.

She wandered through the house, stopping in each room to look around. Getting a sense of a place that was steeped in tragedy and darkness, and marveling at the way the dark magic seemingly emanated from the very walls and floorboards. It was a heady feeling, and she was amazed that Michael could ever leave, between the magic and the fact that his family’s spirits were bound here.

If she’d grown up here, she would have happily signed the Book of the Beast on her sixteenth birthday. She’d been here an hour and she already knew that. 

Salem seemed discontent, following her closely, eyeing things that she couldn’t perceive. For all she knew Michael’s mother was standing there, close enough to touch, choosing to never be seen. She hoped not, though she wasn’t quite ready to announce to the house’s occupants why she was here.

She caught a glimpse of movement out the corner of her eye. As if they had sensed her uneasiness, twin redheaded boys darted around a corner, laughing and pointing at her before disappearing into a door she hadn’t noticed before. She followed them, and swung open the door to show a rough-hewn staircase disappearing into the darkness.

“Down we go,” she said to Salem, who mewled in response. 

The light actually flickered on when she hit the switch, showing a basement that hadn’t been treated with the same care as the rest of the house. There was an echo of laughter in the air, and Sabrina called out, “Hello?”

She hoped for an unearthly response, but nothing came. She went deeper into the basement, entering a shadowy room. It was empty except for a single wooden chair laying sadly on its side.

She strode over to it and righted it, brushing off a cobweb that clung to one leg as she did. “There,” she said. “Much better.”

Then she plopped down on the chair, crossed her legs, and waited. Salem slinked into the room, almost reluctantly, and sat down beside her, grooming his paw fastidiously. Chin up, Sabrina looked around the room, and said, “I know you’re there. You have to be bored of the same old ghosts.” She looked around hopefully, but the room was still.

She crossed her arms, making a few more attempts at polite conversation with the thin air. Unsuccessful. She started to tap her foot, giving up on politeness as she burst out with, “Come on, I just want to talk!”

Nothing.

Sabrina sighed, reached into her bookbag, and pulled out her demonology homework. She might as well use her time wisely, if she was just going to be sitting there in a dark, haunted basement waiting on some ghosts to get brave enough to show themselves.

She was muttering Agrippa’s classifications of demons to herself to try to commit them to memory when she became aware of someone looking over her shoulder. 

“Cool, are those demons?” 

“Yes,” Sabrina said, turning to look. For a single, shocked moment, she thought it was Michael. A tangle of blond curls, a striped sweater, a disdainful expression, but there was something altogether more innocent about the way he stared at her demonology book with awe. She continued on, hoping her voice didn’t waver. “Just lesser demons, though, and there aren’t any summoning rituals in this book.”

“Have you ever summoned a demon?” He was eager, leaning over her shoulder, pointing to a particularly gruesome illustration on the page.

She didn’t think mentioning Salem’s status as her familiar counted, so she shook her head. “Not on purpose.”

Michael’s dad -- that’s who it had to be -- looked disappointed. “Who are you, anyway? You don’t look old enough to be the new owner.”

“I broke in,” Sabrina said. “I wanted to talk to ghosts.”

“There aren’t any ghosts here,” he said, lying unrepentantly, sitting down beside her chair so he could still see her book. 

“I’m Sabrina,” she offered her hand.

“Tate.” His handshake was awkward; he grabbed her fingers, rather than taking her hand. She supposed he was out of practice. “Why do you want to talk to ghosts?”

What the hell. “It’s a specific-ghost thing, not a general one. In my experience restless spirits aren’t the most entertaining.”

Tate was visibly offended. “Of course they are.”

He was really terrible at pretending to be alive. “Full disclosure: I know you’re dead.”

“Oh no, you’re here about the school thing,” Tate said, looking like he wanted to fling himself off the nearest ledge.

“No,” Sabrina said. “I did want to talk to your mother.”

Tate gave her a measured look, then gestured at her to follow him, apparently deciding to indulge her on a whim, or perhaps out of his own boredom.

Sabrina followed him up the stairs. From behind, she could almost believe she was with Michael -- the hair was startlingly similar, but there was also a sameness to the way they held their shoulders, hunched as though under the weight of the whole world. 

“Mom!” he yelled, leading the way into a parlor. “Company!”

“Dear, you know I’m not interested in whatever riffraff has darkened our doorstep now,” said a woman lounging on the sofa, Crown Royal in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Michael’s description of her had been through loving eyes, but she was unmistakable. “I’m not going to appear to that little mouse.”

“Ma’am, my name is Sabrina Spellman,” Sabrina said, not bothering to pretend like she couldn’t see Michael’s grandmother sitting there. “I’m here because of your grandson.”

Beside her, Tate visibly stiffened. She reached out and touched his arm lightly. “You need to stay, too. I know you’re not comfortable talking about Michael, but I’d really rather not have to spell you into staying. Free will is important.”

“I’ve cut ties with that hellspawn,” Constance said briskly. “And I’ve no interest in talking about him.”

Tate’s mouth was tight. He was like a guitar strung too tightly; one wrong touch and he was going to snap. 

“That’s the problem. Treating him like he’s evil is only going to bring about the End of Days,” Sabrina said, hoping speaking matter-of-factly might cut through mortal fears of the Dark Lord. 

Constance rolled her eyes, gesturing with her cigarette as she said, “I’ve been burdened with children beyond saving, and I’ve relieved myself of one such burden. Leave me be.”

Sabrina perched on the edge of a chair, crossing her ankles and clasping her hands primly on her lap. She looked at Tate. “And you?”

“I don’t have anything to do with that kid,” he said, looking deeply uncomfortable. Sabrina wondered how much of it was the topic of his son, and how much was his mother’s words.

“He wears his hair like yours,” Sabrina said. “He dresses like you. He desperately wants to know you.”

Tate picked at the hole in the knee of his jeans, head bowed. He shrugged, and said, “I’m not his fucking dad, okay. I don’t know why people keep trying to shove him at me.”

“You kind of are, though,” Sabrina said. “He needs someone who isn’t the Dark Lord to emulate, and while you’re obviously not ideal, at least I’m relatively certain you aren’t interested in the End of Days.”

Constance’s gaze pinned her down, as sharp as her Aunt Zelda’s. “Are you one of those Satanic types? You sound like the ones who took Michael away.”

Sabrina said carefully, “I was raised in the Church of Night, yes, and admittedly I have signed my name into the Book of the Beast, but I’m also half-mortal and want more out of life than just death and despair.”

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned there was a woman there, lovely with kind eyes. She moved around the perimeter of the room, coming to a stop just beside the couch where Constance was lounging. 

“There’s no good in that child,” the woman said, her harsh words at odds with her otherwise comforting appearance. “You’re wasting your time.”

“You’re his mother,” Sabrina said, the pieces clicking together easily. “How can there be good in a child if their own mother condemns them before they’re even born?”

“Now, I thought Vivian was a little harsh myself,” Constance said, “but that was before I filled my yard with tiny graves of murdered creatures. He killed a priest, girl, and went blithely about his video game as if nothing had happened.”

“He is evil,” Vivian said. “I could feel that evilness when he was in my womb, and he murdered me and his brother when he clawed his way into the world.”

Sabrina looked from woman to woman, then to Tate, who refused to look at anyone.

“I can’t force you to change your minds. I know he’s the Antichrist, and that he’s done awful things. I’m not asking you to forgive him. All I want is to try to show him that he isn’t an unloveable monster, that there is reason for him to strive to be better. I want to try to avoid the End of Days, and I firmly believe that showing Michael that the world is a place worth saving is the first step.” She took a deep breath. “You three have incredible power in your hands. I hope that you use it.” 

She picked up her bookbag and walked out of the room before anyone could say anything. Once in the hall, she carefully propped a mirror up on the table. “A friend of mine spelled this,” she announced to the hallway in general, knowing her voice would carry to the spirits. “You can use it to contact me, if you have anything to say.”

She didn’t have high hopes. 

*

“No luck?” Ms. Wardwell asked as Sabrina passed by her in the hall. 

Sabrina sighed. “I know they’re ghosts and not really capable of growth, but I expected more. His mother truly believed he was evil and irredeemable. It was so disheartening.”

“Well, dear, he is evil and irredeemable,” Ms. Wardwell pointed out. “Just because you think he’s cute doesn’t make him any less a prince of darkness.”

Sabrina sighed again and leaned against a locker, hugging her books to her chest. “I know he’s evil, Ms. Wardwell, but who among us are innocent? I think I would be doing all witches a disservice if I didn’t do my part to ensure that we have a future.”

“Oh, child, you are so like your father,” Ms. Wardwell said, reaching out and gently smoothing Sabrina’s hair. 

Sabrina took a step back, uncomfortable with the comparison. “I left the mirror.”

“Perhaps one of the spirits will contact us.” Ms. Wardwell didn’t sound particularly optimistic.

Sabrina smiled tightly, then she spotted Roz coming down the hall. “I’ll let you know,” she promised as she hurried in the other direction. 

*

Michael was in the cemetery when she returned from school, staring down at the resurrection plot with a puzzled look on his face.

“It’s just dirt,” Sabrina called as she walked up the drive. “It’s not going to do anything.”

“The magic feels strange,” Michael said, bending down and pushing his fingers into the dirt. It was loose -- it had been dug up too many times recently -- and his hand sunk in easily. His eyebrows were creased.

“It isn’t necessarily dark magic,” Sabrina explained, dropping her bookbag on a nearby grave and perching atop a headstone. “So it’s different from what you use.”

“Ah.” He continued to kneel in the dirt, though he pulled his hand out, inspecting it closely. She wondered if he felt magic, like her, or if perhaps it were a visible thing for him? If so, it would explain how Michael had excelled at all his classes at the Academy seemingly without effort, easily performing even the most difficult spells expected of students. 

Michael had been an immediate hit amongst all the witches and warlocks. Prudence had taken one look at him, adjusted her skirt so that it showed off her legs even more, and hit him with her most alluring look while offering to show him around.

The look on her face when Michael had disinterestedly turned her down had been sweet. While the petty competition between them no longer existed, and Sabrina even considered Prudence somewhat of a friend these days, Sabrina had to admit that watching Prudence not get what she wanted still gave her a sweet thrill. 

Nicholas Scratch had made a similar offer, when he found Michael standing before the statue of the Dark Lord in the center of the school, as had Agatha and Dorcas, along with a slew of other witches and warlocks, but Michael rebuffed them all. It wasn’t out of some sort of devotion to Sabrina -- she wasn’t naive enough to think that one midnight kiss tied them together -- but rather Michael seemed to not understand the effect he had on others. 

Neither did he didn’t seem to understand how to create ties with others.

Sabrina was, perversely, both glad that he didn’t immediately bond with anyone else, and worried that Michael was incapable of meaningful bonds. His mother had been so certain that he was nothing more than a vessel of evil; who was to say she was wrong?

Michael looked up at her from where he knelt in the grave dirt, the heavens reflected in his eyes as he said, “When I’m at the Academy, I can feel my father’s presence.”

Sabrina kicked her heels against the headstone she was perched on, mentally apologizing to its owner. “Sometimes it’s smothering.”

“If I can feel him, he can feel me,” Michael’s brow was creased. Her comment seemed to roll off him unnoticed; Sabrina supposed that what felt like a noose slowly tightening around her own neck felt more like guidance to someone seeking the Dark Lord’s favor.

“I wouldn’t presume to know what the Dark Lord does and doesn’t feel,” Sabrina said, shamelessly quoting her Aunt Zelda’s blanket response to Sabrina’s more sacreligious questions.

The stare Michael pinned her with sent a shiver down her spine. Sometimes it was easy to forget what he was, truly, underneath those blond curls and soft voice. Right now, it was impossible. “He is going to notice me.”

Sabrina nodded, words stuck in her throat.

*

The statue of Lucifer lay on its side, the head cracked clean in two.

Several witches cried quietly in the corner, and none of the students of the Academy seemed to know what to do, clustering around the defiled statue. The room was filled with mutterings, equal parts angry and distraught.

Michael stood apart from the masses, looking cold and beautiful in the candlelight. Ambrose had taken him under his wing and dressed him for school, Michael’s lip curling at some of the more outlandish suggestions and refusing altogether to wear the scarves Ambrose kept draping over him. The end result had made him look somehow grander and intimidating than the typical young witch or warlock.

Sabrina approached him, standing close enough beside him that no one could hear what she was saying. “Subtle.”

His lip quirked up. “Subtle wasn’t working.”

“It’s been a _week_ ,” Sabrina said. Honestly, _boys_.

Michael shrugged, unrepentant. 

Father Blackwood entered the room, expression grim. All the students gathered inward, with the exception of Michael, who stayed exactly where he was. Sabrina held tight, too, and Nicholas Scratch moved against the tide of witches and warlocks to flank her other side.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re not demanding justice for this terrible offense,” Nicholas said quietly.

“I’m very upset that someone would disrespect school property like that,” Sabrina replied. Michael looked straight ahead. She added, as an afterthought, “And the Dark Lord. Very disrespectful.”

Nicholas gave her a look that clearly said he wasn’t buying the bullshit she was serving up, but Sabrina took a page out of Michael’s book and looked straight ahead.

Father Blackwood’s disapproving voice cut through the crowd, condemning whoever had struck down the image of the Dark Lord and promising dire consequences, both in this realm and in hell, for such actions. Halfway through his speech, he caught Michael’s eye, and Sabrina saw him visibly have to gather himself. The rest of his condemnation lacked fire.

Father Blackwood dismissed them all to class afterwards. Michael cast one last glance at the decimated statue of Satan and turned on his heel, leaving without a backwards glance.

Sabrina approached Father Blackwood, aware that Nicholas was still hovering in the doorway within earshot.

“I know,” he said shortly. He surveyed the damage. “Tantrums are to be expected.”

“Has the Dark Lord said anything?” Sabrina hoped not.

Father Blackwood pursed his lips. “Nothing direct.”

Sabrina narrowed her eyes at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

Father Blackwood stared down at the broken statue, hands clasped behind his back. “The Dark Lord implied some displeasure with you.”

“After I signed my name in his stupid book?” Sabrina couldn’t win.

“He didn’t offer any explicit directives,” Father Blackwood said. He glanced over at her. “I got the distinct impression that he disapproved of your… closeness to the Antichrist.”

“Why?” Sabrina scrunched up her nose. “Shouldn’t he be happy that I’m spending time with one of his?”

“Happy isn’t quite the emotion the Dark Lord seems to be experiencing,” Father Blackwood said, not meeting her eyes. “I must go, Judas needs me.”

Sabrina could have sworn that Father Blackwood was fleeing. She shrugged, and almost ran into Nicholas as she left the room.

“Nice work, Spellman,” he said, nodding at her with respect. 

Sabrina didn’t have a response, just headed to class, trying not to think about what they were implying.

*

“You promised to show me Greendale.” 

Sabrina looked up from her homework, smiling at the sight of Michael leaning casually against her bedroom door frame. “I did, didn’t I?” She thought a moment. “How do you feel about horror movies?”

Michael was absolutely down for a horror movie.

She felt ridiculously giddy as she got ready to leave, adjusting her headband and reapplying lipstick. She lived with the guy, she shouldn’t feel this thrilled to go out to the movies with him, but it felt like a date.

A date. 

She felt a pang of regret that it wasn’t Harvey that she was getting ready for. Staying away from him was the only way to keep him safe, and she had brought him so much misery, but deep down she still loved him, in a bright, girlish and above all _mortal_ way. 

Her feelings for Michael were as far from that as possible. He was funny and uncertain and underneath it all a strange sort of fragility that had nothing to do with power, which leaked off him enough to sometimes make her dizzy, but instead part of the core of who he _was_.

It was strangely mortal; a fragility she never saw in her Aunties or Ambrose or the Weird Sisters. 

She remembered, suddenly, Michael’s ghostly mother back at the house he’d grown up in. She had been mortal. Michael was half-mortal, just like her.

His power and dedication to the Dark Lord were so all-encompassing that she hadn’t thought of what that might mean for him before. 

Her nervousness for the night ahead dissipated as quickly as it had come upon her, and she raced down the stairs, ready to take Michael for a mortal night of fun.

Michael was in the kitchen. Aunt Hilda was handing him various baked goods as quickly as he could shovel them into his mouth. Aunt Hilda had taken to spending every evening in the kitchen since Michael’s arrival.

“We’re off to the movies,” Sabrina said, so that Aunt Hilda would stop unearthing muffins and cookies from the cupboard. “They’re having a holiday horror-a-thon.”

“Oh, how delightful,” Aunt Hilda said, patting Michael on the cheek as though he were a young boy and not the literal Antichrist.

Sabrina thought Aunt Hilda was one of the best things to ever happen to Michael.

“Are you ready?” Michael asked, brushing crumbs off his shirt and standing. She nodded, and they headed out of the house.

Sabrina could have driven to town, but walking through the woods at night was one of her favorite things. One of the best things about winter was how early darkness fell; Sabrina loved it. 

Michael was looking around the forest. “There’s not winter where I grew up,” he said thoughtfully. She noticed that he didn’t call it ‘home’. “Does it snow here?”

Sabrina nodded. “I love snow. It makes the mundane magical. It sparkles in the sun, and everything is so crisp. And the woods at night seem to glow.”

Michael looked around once more, then slowly raised his arms up at his side. Snowflakes drifted down, then faster, and Sabrina laughed and spun around.

Michael lowered his arms and watched her, looking aloof and beautiful with snowflakes in his hair, and Sabrina grabbed both his hands and spun him around, too. 

“You can let yourself find joy in simple things,” she said as they stumbled to a stop, Michael’s hair falling into his face and a smile cracking across his features. “Look at the beauty you’ve created.”

Around them, snow blanketed the ground thinly. As abruptly as it started, the snowflakes stopped falling, though the snow on the ground remained. Sabrina still held Michael’s hands in her own, and she could feel suppressed magic pulsing under his skin. 

There was so much of it.

“You don’t have to just destroy things,” she said, gripping tighter, feeling the magic shifting and churning within him. He must be letting his walls down to her; she’d never felt his magic so clearly before. “Look at what you’ve created,” she repeated.

Michael’s mouth quirked somewhat sadly. “Why are you trying so hard to help me?”

“Because I’ve tasted the power of hellfire,” Sabrina said softly, “and it was glorious, and I wanted nothing more than to burn everything, but I have to resist. I have to know it’s possible to feel the power of the night and turn away.”

His hands were so hot that she wanted to let go, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. 

“You don’t bear the Mark of the Beast,” he said quietly. 

“I willingly signed my name over to the Dark Lord,” Sabrina said, “knowing fully what I was doing. All you did was be born. Your choices are your own. Michael, no matter what others have told you. Free will is what the Church of Night preaches, and you of all people should embrace it.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that before,” he said, brows drawn in. His hands cooled within hers, and finally he let her go. She could feel the delicate zing of his magic dissipating from her hands, too familiar to be foreign.

The mortal part of her rebelled at the way dark magic felt like home, but Sabrina was and always had been made up of contradictions. Michael was, too, despite how certain he was of his own monstrousness. 

“Come on, or we’ll miss Black Christmas,” Sabrina said. Michael followed her through the woods, quieter now, but Sabrina thought it was a good kind of introversion.

The theater showing was blissfully half-empty, and Sabrina followed Michael to the back row. They had the biggest popcorn the theater sold between them, and on the screen a slasher classic led them relentlessly through suspense and murder.

Michael laughed just as much as she did, and never once gave her one of those sideways glances that Harvey always would when she burst out with laughter in the middle of a murder scene. She did, strangely, miss the way Harvey would get nervous during the suspenseful parts and grip her arm. Michael just leaned forward, enchanted by the rising tension. Bloodsplatter and screaming faces reflected in his eyes, and for a moment he looked exactly like who he was born to be.

Sabrina leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, and he smiled over at her, the spell broken. 

Then he leaned in for another kiss, this one pressed against her lips, and Sabrina found she didn’t mind missing the end of the movie one bit.

*

They were exiting the movie, Sabrina tucked up tight against Michael’s side as she pointed out the importance of the Final Girl in early slasher films. “Giving the victim agency to fight her attacker and form her own fate was revolutionary,” she pointed out as someone brushed past her. 

She looked up to see a familiar set of hunched shoulders pushing through the crowd. Harvey’s hair was tangled and sticking up oddly, as if he hadn’t even fixed it before leaving the house, and she felt obscurely guilty.

Michael’s eyes tracked him through the crowd. “Do you know him?” 

“That was Harvey,” Sabrina said. “He was my boyfriend, until things went badly.”

Michael looked at her, eyes narrowing. “He hurt you.”

“And I hurt him. That’s the nature of love,” Sabrina said, treading lightly. The memory of bloodsplatter and screaming faces reflected in Michael’s eyes was too fresh; she wasn’t going to unburden her own anger and risk Michael losing the steps towards humanity he’d taken. “Sometimes you lose the things that matter most to you, and it hurts like hell, but it’s worth it, to have felt love in the first place.”

Michael slid his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer against him as they left the theater. “It hurt when I lost my Grandma. She left me on purpose.”

Sabrina couldn’t say that she’d met the woman and hadn’t been impressed. “She didn’t deserve you.”

Michael was quiet for a moment. “You’re lucky, to have been raised by Hilda and Zelda.”

“I am,” Sabrina said. “They’re happy to have you in our home now, though.”

“Hilda’s brownies are amazing,” Michael agreed. Sabrina lead him to the coffee shop, smiling and waving at the people she knew as they found a quiet table. Michael had loved the movie, just like she’d thought he would, and Harvey was soon forgotten.

*

Their movie date had caused a shift in Michael’s behavior -- at the Academy he no longer stood aloofly by, avoiding the other students. He’d even eaten dinner with Sabrina and the Weird Sisters, which he had never attempted before.

There had been no casual touching or mention of their iffy relationship status, but Prudence had clearly understood where Michael’s affections lie. She had spent the entire dinner flirting outrageously with him.

Michael had acted as though he were oblivious to the entire production, which had caused Sabrina untold amounts of joy. Nick had joined them halfway through the lunch, but for once had not taken up a flirtation challenge, and had been almost subdued in his interactions with everyone.

Sabrina had raised an eyebrow at him, and he had glanced over at Michael with a knowing expression.

He couldn’t know that Michael was the Antichrist, but clearly, he understood that he was dangerous. Sabrina thought uneasily about the conversation he’d overheard with Father Blackwood, but nothing definitive had been said. And even if he did figure it out… It wasn’t as though anyone would believe that the Antichrist had come to the Academy, and instead of making them all kneel before him and perform sacrifices in his name, he’d chosen to live with the Spellmans and attend classes.

She just hoped he wouldn’t tell Prudence. She appreciated her a lot more now, but she didn’t want her always hanging out at the Spellman Mortuary. 

After her last class, she’d gathered her things when she saw Father Blackwood come for Michael with a serious look on his face. Michael had waved at her as he’d gone, clearly unconcerned, and Sabrina had returned home. Michael could find the way on his own, and there was no need for her to stay.

She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach that she’d made the wrong choice.

The phone rang shrilly, and Sabrina answered it, thankful for the distraction. “Spellman Mortuary, Sabrina speaking.”

“Sabrina, if you would come over, I have something to share with you,” Miss Wardwell said over the phone, eschewing normal greetings altogether. Her voice gave nothing away. 

“It’s kind of inconvenient,” Sabrina said. She wanted to be here when Michael arrived.

“It’s imperative,” Miss Wardwell said before cutting off the call, leaving Sabrina unable to turn her down again. Her uneasy feeling remained, but Miss Wardwell wouldn’t call her over for nothing.

She met Ambrose in the hall as she was hurrying out, pulling on her favorite red coat

“Where’s the fire?” he asked, lounging against the banister and balancing his oversized bowl of popcorn on his hip. He tossed a kernel in the air and caught it effortlessly in his mouth.

“Miss Wardwell invited me over,” Sabrina said. “She sounded like it was important.”

“You’re not taking your new bestie?” Ambrose made no bones about appreciating Michael aesthetically, but he lacked Sabrina’s optimism when it came to redemption. He tended to make himself scarce when Michael was about, which was an impressive feat given they lived in the same house.

“Father Blackwood was meeting with him after class,” Sabrina explained. “And besides, we’re not connected at the hip! I go places without Michael all the time.”

Admittedly, it was mostly to Greendale High. That still counted, though.

She biked to Miss Wardwell’s house, enjoying the bite of cold air in her lungs and the way her breath puffed back out of her mouth like dragon’s breath. She felt flushed and refreshed by the time she reached her destination.

When she knocked, the door swung open of its own accord. She took that as an invitation and went inside, calling, “Miss Wardwell?”

“Sabrina.” Miss Wardwell was perched at the edge of her seat in an elegant armchair, drink in hand. “The young man was asking for you.”

She gestured towards the fireplace, and Sabrina spent a confused moment looking into the flames before looking at the mirror hanging over the mantle. There, instead of seeing herself and Miss Wardwell reflected, she saw a familiar blond in an elegant and abandoned bedroom.

“Hi,” Sabrina said cautiously. 

“Hey, so, I thought about what you said.” Tate sounded confident, but Sabrina had spent enough time around Michael to hear the waver in his voice. They were remarkably similar.

Sabrina raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Better to let Tate say his piece first, so she didn’t make him skittish.

“I think you’re maybe right,” Tate said. “Well, right-ish. I can’t be his dad. I’m freaking dead, okay, and we’re the same age, and it’s super weird. But we are family, and frankly, he might be the least fucked up one of us all.”

Sabrina hadn’t expected that take. “The _least_?”

“I mean, yeah, he killed that priest, but I talked to Constance about it and she was trying to exorcise him. That’s pretty uncool. And honestly who hasn’t killed a few people for misguided reasons?” Tate shrugged, though she could hear the heaviness behind his light words.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Miss Wardwell offered, raising her drink in solidarity. Sabrina wanted to protest, but the memory of how easily the knife had slid through Agatha’s neck stopped her. 

“Are you the only one who wants to be part of Michael’s life?” she asked carefully instead, not wanting to sound ungrateful but hoping that Michael’s mother felt the same. The more ties to humanity she forged for him, the better.

“So far. I tried to talk Violet into it, but she won’t listen to me.” 

Sabrina had no earthly idea who Violet was, so that was fine. 

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sabrina asked. “I mean, not right this second, obviously, but soon?”

Tate nodded. “Yeah, better rip off the fucking band-aid quickly, right?”

“He’s not as terrible as you think,” Sabrina offered.

“He might not be, but I’m going to come as a disappointment,” Tate said, shrugging. “And he’s been away from Constance for a while now, so things have to have improved for him, no matter what those Satanists convinced him.”

Sabrina had seen the Mark of the Beast -- had dragged her fingers over it when they made out in the movie theater, actually, and the part of her that belonged to the Dark Lord had felt a definite thrill at _that_ \- and knew its veracity, but now wasn’t the time to point that out. Michael having a family who _didn’t_ want him to be the living embodiment of evil was key to humanity’s survival.

“Shit, gotta go,” Tate said, looking over his shoulder. “Too many fucking nosey ghosts in this damn house. I’ll call back tomorrow, same time.”

“I’ll make sure Michael’s here,” Sabrina said. “Do you want me to warn him who’s calling?”

“You know him better than I do,” Tate said, and abruptly the connection was severed.

Sabrina turned on her heel and looked at Miss Wardwell. “Well, that’s either going to be amazing or a disaster.”

Miss Wardwell took a sip of her drink and said, “I’m not sure which to hope for.”

Sabrina sometimes wondered whether Miss Wardwell really was trying to help her, or if she had other intentions. There had been too many lies for her to fully trust, but Miss Wardwell was frankly too useful to have around. She readily shared magic with Sabrina that her Aunties would balk at. 

Sabrina looked up at the mirror again, reflecting just the mundane, and said, “Can I take that with me? Hopefully Michael will want to use it more than just the once.”

Miss Wardwell gestured grandly towards it. “Anything for you.”

The mirror was cumbersome, but Miss Wardwell taught her a charm to reduce its weight, and Sabrina wrapped it and tied it a basket on her bike. The ride home was a blur. Sabrina left her bike leaning against a tombstone as she untied the mirror and lugged it inside.

Ambrose met her on the stairs, raising his eyebrow at the parcel in her arms. “Please tell me that’s a portrait of our unholy houseguest.”

“Hardly,” Sabrina said, though honestly a portrait of Michael would only improve the aesthetics of the funeral parlor. She pulled back part of the wrapping. “It’s a mirror.”

“A damned ugly mirror,” Ambrose said, brushing at his eyebrow as he looked at it. “I’d trash it, personally.”

“Miss Wardwell bespelled it for me,” Sabrina said. She continued up the stairs, and Ambrose followed. “It’s connected to a mirror in the house Michael’s family haunts.”

“Ah, part of your Not Today Satan Plan,” Ambrose said. 

Sabrina stopped short. “I absolutely did not name it that.”

“Of course you didn’t, you have no flair.” 

Ambrose plucked the mirror from her arms and carried it into the upstairs sitting room. It was an uncomfortable room tucked away at the end of the hall, easily the least-used room in the house. Ambrose claimed once that a great-great-uncle had once kept a menagerie of venomous snakes free-range in the room, and that had managed to kill the vibe for all future generations, but Sabrina doubted that was true. The room sat above the viewing room, though, and as a child Sabrina had been cautioned to never play in there in order to not disturb the mourners, and she supposed some admonishments stuck.

Rather than go to the trouble of hanging it on the wall, Ambrose unwrapped the mirror and placed it on a table, propping it against the wall and securing it in place with a few old spellbooks that were moldering away on a small bookshelf. 

He surveyed his work. “You realize it’s positively criminal that out of all the witches and warlocks in the world, the Antichrist chose the one who wants him to play nice with humanity.”

“Criminal isn’t the word I’d chose,” Sabrina said tartly. She told Ambrose how the mirror worked, in case someone tried to contact them while she was out. 

Ambrose surveyed the mirror one last time. “I jest, but I do hope that your wildly optimistic plan does work. Things are finally improving for me.”

“Michael really does want to be good.” Sabrina smiled softly. “He just needs encouragement, that’s all.”

Ambrose tipped an imaginary hat at her, and left her alone.

*

Sabrina was getting ready for bed when she heard the door slam downstairs.

The house was old and solid in ways that were fortified by magic, but she still felt a tremor run through the floorboards at the sound, and she knew immediately that Michael was upset. She grabbed her robe, belting it over her nightie.

There were crashes from downstairs, and she met Aunt Hilda in the hall. “Dearie me, that doesn’t sound good.”

Sabrina pursed her lips and looked towards the stairs. Another crash echoed from the foyer, and she thought it was the sound of a table crashing into a wall. “Father Blackwood met with him after class. I’m guessing it wasn’t good news.”

“Quite astute of you, darling,” Aunt Hilda said. She looked around. “Oh, I wish Zelda were here. She has such a way with the disenfranchised.” 

“She’s not?” Sabrina asked. Ambrose met them in the hall, his own robe fluttering behind him. “I didn’t know she had plans.”

Michael was yelling, though she couldn’t make out any actual words, and the floor shuddered slightly beneath her feet.

“Busy lady, your Aunt Zelda,” Hilda said vaguely, and Sabrina took the cue to not pursue it further. It undoubtedly had something to do with Father Blackwood’s ever-increasing visits.

Sabrina took a deep breath to steel herself. “I guess we should go see what’s wrong?”

“We? Sabrina, you’re on your own for this one,” Ambrose said. “This is your moment.”

Hilda wrung her hands but nodded in agreement. “I’ll start some cookies, if you’ll go attempt to keep the business from getting smashed in a fit of teen angst.”

“Cookies are good, he likes those,” Sabrina said, and without thinking too much on the danger headed downstairs.

She stopped just short of the bottom of the stairs as Michael launched a skull vase that had been in the family for centuries against the floor, sending shards of ceramic across the entire floor. “Hi.”

Michael didn’t look up. He was breathing heavily, and there was a sense of deeply coiled magic unfurling within him. It was hot and wicked and tasted like brimstone against her lips, and Sabrina truly feared him for the first time.

She couldn’t let him see that fear, though. That would just send him deeper into a spiral of destruction and rage.

“I guess Father Blackwood didn’t have good news?” she guessed, hoping that talking about it was the best route. She didn’t think he was distractible at the moment.

“No, he did not.” Michael still wasn’t looking at her. With his head bowed, blond curls tumbling down to obscure his features, he looked every inch a renaissance painting of the Morning Star. 

“Are you expelled?” Sabrina didn’t think that would cause this level of anger, but it was the safest question she could think of. 

“No.” The syllable was harsh, more a snarl than a word. 

Sabrina thought of the statue of the Dark Lord shattered on the floor, the way that the head has been cloven in two, and dared another question. “Is it your father?”

“I have no father.” Michael raised his head for the first time, and Sabrina tried not to react at the way his eyes glowed with hellfire. Tear stains tracked down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry?” Sabrina said, not sure if she meant it as an apology or a request for clarification.

Michael took it as the latter. “Father Blackwood regretted to inform me that the Dark Lord did not claim me at this time.”

“You have the Mark of the Beast, he’s already claimed you,” Sabrina said, rather stupidly.

Michael hurled a handful of raw magic against the wall. Apparently the house really was fortified by magic, because while the magic crackled and burned against the wall, charring the wallpaper, the wall itself remained unburnt and intact. “That was a promise yet unfulfilled, apparently.”

Sabrina took a step forward, and Michael didn’t tense or back away, so she took that as an invitation to move close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Michael, you still have so much to learn before you take your rightful place. Maybe the Dark Lord wants to give you that opportunity to become...” 

She trailed off. In this mood, ‘who he wants you to be’ would be taken the wrong way. She settled on, “More. You can become more.”

The hellfire flickered in his eyes, and then dimmed to reveal the blue beneath. “No one wants me, Sabrina. He abandoned me.”

“You’re wanted,” Sabrina said, dropping her hand from his shoulder to grasp his hand instead, pulling it up to her heart. “I want you.”

His smile was sharp and bitter. “You’re not family.”

Sabrina said carefully, “You have family that want you, too.”

Michael shook his head. “Grandma chose death over me.”

“Not exactly a dealbreaker, but from what I can tell, your grandma was a piece of work,” Sabrina said. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you but… I went to the house your family haunts.”

Hellfire blazed back into his eyes. “You did what?”

“Because I could tell they hurt you,” Sabrina said quickly, “and that pissed me off, okay? So I talked to them, and at first they were a-holes just like you said.”

“At first?” 

She still gripped Michael’s hand in her own, and the magic that radiated off it was enough to make her dizzy. “Miss Wardwell showed me a way to make contact by connecting mirrors. Earlier tonight, your…” She wasn’t sure how to describe Tate, not in this state. “A Tate Langdon called. Said he wanted to get to know you, because you were family.”

Leaving out a few bits of the conversation about Tate not wanting to claim Michael as his son were prudent at the moment, Sabrina felt.

Michael took a shuddering breath, and she could feel the demonic energy recede within him. “He did?”

“I brought the mirror home, to show you as soon as you got here,” Sabrina said. “It’s upstairs.”

Michael looked around the foyer, looking ashamed, like a child who had been caught destroying their own favorite toy in a tantrum. He waved his hand, and a coil of magic reached out and repaired the worst of the damage.

Sabrina stared; she wouldn’t have thought he could cause anything but destruction while in a mood like this. She narrowed her eyes, considering his expression. Resentment and rage still simmered; his Unholy Father’s rejection was a deeper wound than could be repaired with the promise of a ghostly one, but she thought the worst of it was gone.

She pretended not to see Michael rub at his eyes with the sleeve of his velvet blazer, and lead him up the stairs to the mirror. It felt like days since Ambrose had placed it there, not less than an hour. 

Michael stared at the mirror, delicately tracing its plain wooden frame as though it were priceless. “How does it work?”

She reached out and activated it with a snap of magic and a few spoken words, hoping beyond hope that someone friendly would respond. Tate himself was doubtless too much to hope for.

Michael watched the frame flicker to the house’s bedroom, coiled with dangerous energy like a cobra following a snakecharmer. 

Two figures sat on the bed, both with long hair tangling together as they spoke. Michael tensed beside her, and Sabrina recognized Vivian with a start.

“Hi,” she called, hoping to not startle the two spirits too badly. 

Michael remained utterly silent.

Vivian obviously recognized him, and the girl with her covered her mouth with her hand. 

Sabrina reached over, took Michael’s hand again, and said, “It’s been a bad day, and I was trying to reach someone else.”

“Not that hateful old bitch, I hope,” the girl said. 

“Violet, don’t,” warned Vivian, and 

“Mom, you know she is,” Violet said, unabated. She turned to the mirror, addressing them directly. “Like, I know she raised you and all, so maybe you don’t realize she’s the worst, but she is. Addie told me all about her.”

Sabrina realized abruptly that Violet was Michael’s sister. She had to be. She didn’t know who Addie was, but Michael clearly did. He said, in a soft voice so unlike the one he’d been using downstairs, “I tried really hard to be good.”

“Trying hard is the only way _to_ be good,” Vivian said gently. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Michael had a deathgrip on her hand, but Sabrina would happily sacrifice feeling in her fingers to keep this moment perfect. He obviously had no idea how to respond, so he just nodded wordlessly.

Vivian looked at him one more time, then from somewhere in her house a baby cried. “I have to go,” she said, “but maybe we can talk again.”

“I would like that very much,” Michael said. Violet gave a wry smile that Sabrina had seen haunting Michael’s face during his more unguarded moments. 

“I can’t forgive you for everything,” Vivian said. “I can’t pretend that what you are doesn’t terrify me. But I will try to see you for who you are.”

“I’ll try to be someone you want to see,” Michael said. “The darkness… it’s so welcoming.”

“It is,” Sabrina agreed. “But remember who it belongs to. Nothing is free with him.”

Vivian smiled wanly and traced her fingers through the air, as if she were tracing Michael’s features. “We’ll talk again,” she said, sounding more sure this time.

Michael nodded, and the ghosts faded from view, leaving them staring at an empty bed.

Sabrina cut the connection between the mirrors, knowing without asking that Michael no longer needed to speak to Tate immediately. Tomorrow would bring more conversations and more connections forged.

Michael finally loosened his grip on her hand. “She talked to me.”

Sabrina was as surprised as he was. “She did.”

“The Dark Lord hasn’t.” Michael sounded stunned, sitting heavily on the floor, back against the wall, as if all the strength sustaining his fervor had abandoned him. “Father Blackwood passed along his message, but he chose not to speak directly to me. But my mother did, and so did my sister.”

Sabrina sat next to him, staring up at the mirror. “Tate said he would contact you tomorrow when we spoke earlier.”

Michael’s shoulders relaxed as he truly smiled at her for the first time since arriving from Father Blackwood’s meeting. “I have a family.”

“I told you people want you,” Sabrina said. She bumped his shoulder gently with her own. 

“I’m not leaving the Academy.” Michael had a determined look on his face. “I’m going to learn as much as I can. The Dark Lord doesn’t get to choose my fate for me. Fuck him.”

Sabrina felt almost giddy as she swung one leg over Michael’s lap, straddling him and taking his face In her hands. She was incredibly grateful that the Dark Lord was a shitty parent, because Michael now had a real reason to rebel against him, and she was absolutely going to encourage that.

“Fuck the Dark Lord,” she agreed as she enveloped Michael in a kiss. 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say [hi on tumblr.](http://nokomiss.tumblr.com/)


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